Hitman 2: Silent Assassin
by Jarek R Creed
Summary: My first ever fanfiction and it starts with Hitman. Please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

The night was veiled with darkness and there was a familiar alkaline smell in the air. A black cat walked around a dark and dank alley just overlooking the docks. A sudden clap of thunder and lightning briefly illuminated the surroundings of what was an abandoned Russian Naval Base. The cat looked up at the sky and gave a soft yet apprehensive purr. As if to taunt the cat, another bolt of lightning tore through the dark, cloudy sky. The cat let out a sharp hiss of contempt, jumped over an old battered trash lying near a 3-foot high steel fence and fled into the darkness, in search of a dry shelter to spend what was going to be a stormy night. After a few minutes, it started to pour down heavily, but that did not seem to bother the two men who were having a very important discussion in one of the cabins of a fairly small Russian cargo ship. The cabin was lined and littered with broken wooden crates and empty metal barrels. There were clusters of electrical wires hanging from the ceiling. The only furniture in the cabin was a wobbly wooden table and a rickety wooden chair. The cabin was dimly lit but the appearances of the inhabitants were visible enough. One of them carried a brown leather official bag but the stockier one carried a custom SPAZ 12-gauge shotgun. He was about 50 years old, well built for his age, and was dressed in a brown leather jacket with fur collar and cuffs, a pair of black pants and heavy boots. The length of the jacket was near his knees. He was bald at the front and the long graying hair at the back of his head was tied in a ponytail. He had a scar on his rugged face that started over his left thick bushy eyebrow and stretched diagonally down to his left cheek. He had brown, piercing eyes that shone with an unnatural gleam. The crooked shape of his nose, with its broad tip and flaring nostrils, indicated that the once broken bone was never properly set into place. His square jaw, in contrast, was firmly set, and both ends of his thick graying moustache stretched down to the sides of his slightly protruded chin. He had an air of ruthlessness about him. The other person, younger by about 10 or 15 years and slightly taller than his companion, was neatly dressed in a teal-colored suit and wore pointed brown shoes made from crocodile leather. He had the athletic build of a swimmer, and features that were more favorable: a clean-shaven face, hazel eyes, a smaller but upturned nose, a strong jaw with a deeply dimpled chin and his brown hair was neatly brushed back and glistened with hair gel. Unlike his companion, he exuded an air of poise and subtle cunning that was singular, awe-inspiring and frightening at the same time. His appearance was similar to those involved in negotiations of corporate contracts. He took out a file from his bag.

"Hmm…look at this," He told his companion in a moderately deep voice, "it seems your brother was involved in a lot more activities than just smuggling guns for you."

"So what is this?" His companion asked in a rumbling voice that showed no attempts to hide a thick Russian accent, "Drugs? Prostitution? Extortion?"

"I had heard of this project in Indochina years ago," The American replied, "but I never believed in it. It seems they actually had the resources to pull it off. I'm most impressed. What does say here?" He held the paper close to the flickering light bulb and scanned a marked line on the paper, "'an augmented, amplified and improved version of the human species.'"

"Why would anyone clone a little fool like my brother?" The Russian asked, exasperated, "Where did this take place?"

"Umm…in some remote location in Romania," The American answered, checking the document in his hand, "doesn't say exactly, but I know how to find it…if you're still interested."

Later that night, a black unmarked BMW silently pulled up in front of an old building far from town and the two men got out. The weather was worse than before; the storm was at its full wrath and the raindrops were accompanied by hails which made tremendous impact upon collision. The iron-clamped gates of the main entrance to the building were heavily battered and one of the gates was on the verge of falling away at the hinges. Pieces of broken glass littered the front of the gates. It looked as if someone had rammed into them with a car. Where there was usually a set of heavy locks on the gates, there was a strange emblem. At the foot of the gates was a heavy iron deadbolt that was broken in two. The building was enclosed by a ten-foot rectangular wall topped with barbed wire and powerful flash lights were set up at the four corners and on both sides of the iron gates. The surrounding grounds of the building were desolate and the grass was overgrown in places. They entered the grounds and walked along a stone pathway leading towards the dun-colored mansion. There was a circular driveway in front of the mansion entrance. The mansion stood in the middle of the dreary, wet grounds. It was a three-storey polygonal structure, with a square front and a rectangular back. The front had broad, square mullioned windows with arched tops made of thick metal frames and had frosted panes, some of which, on closer inspection, revealed bullet holes. There was a large circular window in the center of the third floor, just below the attic. Two long, narrow balconies started from the east and west corners, ran along the front of the third floor and ended right below the periphery of the circular window. A wide wooden plank placed over the gap between the balconies acted as a crude bridge. There were two small porches with glass doors on either side of the second floor, and a ladder built into a corner wall on the side of the left porch led down, via an enclosed patch of grass, onto the grounds. The vast size of the building, with its gloom and eerie silence, along with the dismal weather, made the environment gruesome enough to run a chill down anyone's spine. The two men cautiously climbed up the stone steps onto the landing, the Russian in front with his SPAZ raised and the American following suit with a powerful flashlight in his right hand and his bag in the left. The Russian grabbed the knob of the double doors leading into the building and turned it. It swung open, and the two men entered into a reception area. The area was divided into two portions by a metal fence that stretched from the ground up to the ceiling and a wooden desk placed by the doors. Behind the desk was another set of doors beside a small wooden table occupied by paper pads, a bell and a telephone. At the far end of the fence was a single steel door with an electronic lock which opened by sliding a keycard through a small horizontal slit. The Russian pointed his shotgun at the lock and pulled the trigger. With a deafening noise that shook the closed room, the lock shattered into countless bits of metal splinters and tiny bits of electronic devices, and the door swung open with a rusty screech. The men crossed the reception area, approached the set of doors and opened them.

As soon as the doors opened, a strong smell hit their noses. They covered their faces and proceeded. They were in a great round hall with a bullet-riddled statue of a one–armed man in a lab coat holding a syringe over a small fountain in the centre of the hall. The expression on the face of the statue was that of a sadistic delight as he stared at the syringe held in his raised hand. His other arm was lying close to the fountain. Three sets of double doors in the south, south-west and south-east directions led to three corridors. Two sets of stairs at the east and west wings led up to the second floor. The small foyer beyond the reception room and the base of the stairs were strewn with disfigured, decaying bodies of four men in SWAT uniforms. The hall was also stained with bloody, mutilated bodies of more SWAT members, along with men in light blue uniforms and white shoes, lying grotesquely on the floor. Another set of doors at the end of the foyer led into a small chemical laboratory. This was a lofty chamber, crammed with broad low tables, which were packed with microscopes, broken bottles, test-tubes and Bunsen burners. The striped blue-and-white tiled floor of the lab was yet another horrible sight of bodies of men lying in dried circular pools of their own blood, wearing white patient garbs which were now a darkened shade of dried blood. A wooden spiral staircase on the right led up to the second floor. There were automatic weapons, shotguns, stun guns and pistols lying around the floor near almost all the bodies. The high ceiling, the blood-stained, bullet-riddled, originally whitewashed walls and round pillars, the tiled floor, the men in hospital garbs and those in uniforms suggested that this building was a medical asylum. The long dimly lit corridors were scattered with dead rotting bodies of at least a dozen SWAT teams. There were surveillance cameras everywhere. The two men proceeded cautiously. Everything was dead silent except for their footsteps, which echoed around the deserted asylum. They walked down all the corridors and inspected all the rooms until they reached one that contained the surveillance monitors. They found two more asylum orderlies lying dead in the room. One of them was on the table with a gunshot wound to the side of his head, and the other was lying on his face on the floor, with two wounds to the back, close to the spinal column. The Russian pushed the body of the man from the table and swore in disgust.

"_Damn!_ The place is a mess. What the hell happened here?" He asked his companion.

"Let's have a look at these surveillance tapes." The American suggested, "I think they might explain the carnage. I had a feeling we might find something like this. I was hoping…" He played the tapes. The tapes showed how the SWAT members and the orderlies were killed, but the perpetrator probably knew the angles of the cameras very well because none of the tapes showed his face. He sneaked up on the SWAT members from behind and strangled them, shot other injured SWAT members and orderlies trying to escape from a distance but did not expose his face in front of the cameras. He always stayed in the dark spots and was deadly efficient.

"_Excellent!_" The Russian exclaimed delightfully. "This guy is damn fantastic; maybe not as strong as me, but fast. You know who he is?"

"Hmm," the American nodded, "and so do you. This, my friend, is Mr. 47."

"_Get out of here!_" the Russian said, surprised, "47 is nothing but a rumor. No one has ever proved that he even exists."

"You know," the American said matter-of-factly, "I actually met him in Rotterdam; didn't know it was him at the time, but I did some research."

"So you already knew he had been here?"

"Sort of."

"But is he for hire?"

"Used to be. I've had no reports of his activities for a long time. For all I know, he could be dead."

"Dead? _Are you blind?_ These tapes prove that he is still alive. Now we just have to make him work for us."

"Well, let's go find him then. A killer like that never retires."


	2. Chapter 2

**The Gontranno Sanctuary**

Somewhere in Palermo, Sicily, he woke up to the sound of a rooster calling to announce the arrival of dawn. It was the middle of autumn and the sky was clear; all the animals in the barn were waking up and migrating birds flew in and out of the inner grounds of the church. The sun was peeking from the horizon, spreading shades of magenta, orange and yellow over the eastern sky. A light breeze was blowing and the trees were swaying gently in the wind, with the leaves rustling in peaceful harmony. He washed up, put on a pair of light brown work gloves, a cream-colored sweatshirt, black pants and a pair of black boots and threw a long light green apron on top. He stepped outside and breathed in the fresh morning air. It filled his lungs and he felt energized. He then went into the small garden near his shed and tended to the usual chores: keeping the garden clean, raking the fallen leaves off the grass, feeding the animals in the small open barn, cleaning the manure and tearing out the ripe vegetables for food.

The sun melted into the sky, as he looked up into the amalgam of colors. He began to feel tired. He had been working in the garden since dawn. It had only just hit 10:30 on his watch but he needed to talk to father Vittorio. That constant feeling in his gut kept gnawing at him for all of the horrible things he had done. He wasn't deserving of God's forgiveness but he needed to make amends with his conscience. After that fateful night in Romania, he had to escape from his past. He escaped to the quiet and tranquility of Sicily and decided to join a church in Palermo, as a gardener. He knew that any of his dead "brothers" could be mistaken for him. So he thought this to be the best time to make a clean break: follow the right path and atone for his ever so many sins. After tending to the tomato plants, he took care of the garbage. After that, he strolled toward his humble abode on the east side of the church: a small wooden shack, one in which he spent a lot of time thinking. He often had dreams of the horrid atrocities he had committed in his troubled past. Those nights he spent lying awake in his bed. He watched the light on the ceiling flicker a few times. He was about to change it when he heard three knocks on his door. Answering the door to see the pastor of the Gontranno Church, Padre Vincenzo Vittorio, he stepped outside into the sun's soothing rays. Father Vittorio was kind enough to grant him food and shelter in exchange for his services to the church and its surrounding grounds. The priest was in his late 60s. He was a little over 5 feet tall, a man of lean structure, with a kind, slightly round, clean-shaven face, a long nose and a weak chin. He wore a pair of oval-shaped glasses. The gray, receding hair on his head was neatly brushed to the left with a severe parting on the right. He had an air of prominence about him that was quite admirable. He was dressed in a black cassock with white collar and cuffs. He also wore a crucifix over his cassock. The priest greeted the man with a warm smile.

_"Buongiorno, mio figlio. Come stai?"_

"Padre," he said, "I'm okay, but I must speak with you." The crucifix around the priest's neck served only as a reminder of the man's inevitable fall into the dark chasms of hell. God would never accept him into the golden kingdom. He was a tool of destruction, a testament against God and his teaching. They began to walk toward the garden.

_"Essere tranquillo, figlio mio,"_ the priest said gently as they entered the garden. "We have a saying here in Sicily: _'Non so nulla, non ho visto nulla. Io non c'ero, e se ero, ero addormentato.'_ So, if you want to open your heart, the best place here is at confession in the church. Meet me there at noon. " He patted the man softly on the shoulder and continued on while the man stood and watched the birds.

He walked around the grounds near his shed, trying to enjoy the beautiful and quiet morning. There was a ruined structure of brick and cement right beside his shed. There was a front entrance and a back entrance, but there was no roof. The front entrance had a wooden door and the back entrance had none. The construction was probably a two-storied building but the man found it unfinished when he first arrived here and he did not see anyone touch the structure since. Sometimes, he would enter the unfinished structure, climb up the wooden stairs to the right of the front door and stand on the ledge, just to watch the sunset or to get a better view of the surrounding grounds and the world outside the boundary walls. The towering two-storied church stood in the centre of its surrounding grounds, casting a huge shadow that covered the inner grounds like a canopy. Its structure was a mixture of ancient Byzantine and Sicilian architecture, with dark stone walls and a sloped roof made of small red tiles. There were three tall windows on each wall, and each window was paned with colored glasses that formed a portrait of a tall angel in a long white dress standing underneath a golden sun that was emitting rays everywhere, and people dressed in long cloaks convened near the foot of the angel. At the eastern end of the church was the bell tower. The man stared at the ancient structure for a while and then turned around. The grounds ahead of him were a lush adornment of thick grassy grounds and tall trees. The entire premise was surrounded by a stone wall 15 feet high and 10 inches thick. At the southern corner of the wall stood a scarecrow dressed in a purple suit and hat. The birds kept their distances from the scarecrow and pecked the grounds near a second wooden shed and a well. The second shed was situated between the flowerbeds and the small barn, right opposite to a huge set of spiral stairs made of granite. The stairs led up to a set of large wooden doors on the west, which opened to the courtyard just outside the main entrance to the church. The well was built between the stairs and the second shed, and was roofed by an arched structure to keep the water in the well cold and free from dust and other unwanted contaminants. A rusty iron bucket was suspended in mid air over the well, supported from the ceiling by an old pulley. A large cross made of iron sat on top of the arched roof.

The man walked around the well and over to the paved path between the barn and the flowerbeds. Most of the flowers had already bloomed in the spring and the summer and they were slowly withering away, except for the few rare ones that would bloom in late autumn. The buds were halfway open and on the verge of a full blossom. The man stood with his back to the spiral stone stairs and stared at the flowers for a long time, admiring the beautiful and subtle intricacy of nature and savoring the sweet aroma of the garden. He looked up at the clear blue sky and watched the white cotton-shaped clouds slowly drifting away from the south to the north. He closed his eyes and felt the gentle soothing wind blow over him, while he listened to the sounds of the leaves, the animals in the barn, the sound of fluttering wings and, for the first time in his life, felt like he was part of the nature's harmony. He could not remember the last time that he felt such peace.

Then, suddenly and without warning, his mind went into overdrive. One by one, flashes of his past began to appear before his eyes in a flurry of horrifying details. It was as if a fast spinning reel of all his past transgressions was playing all by itself. He heard gunshots, screams of agony, whispers of begging for one's life, the sickening sounds of breaking bones, the sounds of a knife piercing flesh or slitting throats, and then he saw his father lying on a white floor, marked with the great emblem, and he was drenched in a pool of his own blood. The pool of blood slowly filled the entire emblem. The old man was dressed in a long white coat, a light green shirt, cream-colored pants and brown shoes, all of which were now had bright shades of crimson on them. He was gushing blood from the corners of his mouth and from a gunshot wound to the chest, and his wrinkled face was contorted in a painful and bloody grimace. He had one hand pressed over his wound and the other was raised at the man, who was looking down at the pathetic form on the floor, and he was pointing a smoking gun at him. His father mustered all his strength and said to him in a strained, trembling voice, "You b-broke…my heart, m-my son." Then he was kneeling beside the old man and raised his head off the floor. His right hand held the man's head while his left hand slowly came over his jaw. There was rapid breathing, followed by a sharp intake of breath, which was drowned by yet another sickening snap that echoed around the chamber. The man opened his eyes and wildly looked around. He was still standing on the paved path. He was still in the church and he was drenched in cold sweat. Somehow, in his most calm and vulnerable state, he was involuntarily pulled back into his dark past. He was hyperventilating and his ears were still ringing. Those images and sounds were just in his mind, and yet they were so vivid and tangible. He blinked a few times to clear the remnants of all those images. He turned around slowly, walked into the barn and concentrated on finishing his chores by feeding the pigs some more and throwing a little bread to the birds.

The tolling of the church bell signaled the arrival of noon. He headed towards the church. There was a back entrance to the church just beside his shed. The small door led to a dungeon below the church and a flight of stairs inside the dungeon led up to the church interior. The dungeon was lit by several thick scented candles stuck on holders nailed into the walls. There were two rooms at this end of the dungeon. One was located opposite the stairs leading up into the church and the other was on the left side of the stairs. He climbed up the stairs and entered the church. The tolling of the bell was louder inside. The church interior was beautifully decorated, with windows on the upper parts of the walls, the panes made of colored glass which were designed to form the same portraits that he saw from outside and the rafters had narrow wooden galleries. An old wrought-iron chandelier containing candles hung from the pallid concave ceiling, between one of three pairs of octagonal pillars arranged in two straight rows. There were two rows of wooden benches neatly arranged by the pillars. The golden rays of the sun seeped through the colored panes and split up into a myriad of colors, illuminating the interior of the church in a warm, radiant glow. The niche behind him contained a large cross on top of a table covered with white cloth. Just beside the table was a small earthenware basin filled with holy water. The upper part of the curved walls of the niche was embellished with a mural of a crucified Jesus Christ surrounded by his grieving apostles. The middle of the wall was decorated with a second mural of Mary holding the infant Christ in her arms with a halo over her head and she was surrounded by the elder priests, who were celebrating the birth of Christ. The confession booth was situated opposite the niche, across the rows of benches. His footsteps echoed around the walls as he walked along the grayish white marble floor towards the confession booth. He had been here for about almost six months but never once did he step foot inside the church. A huge burden of guilt and shame held him back. The burden was getting heavier each day and many questions troubled his already tormented mind. He carefully pushed the cloth door away and entered the confession booth. He knelt down, with his hands clasped together in prayer. The world he came from, no one cared about religion. He was trained in human anatomy, hand-to-hand combat, stealth attack tactics, swordsmanship, marksmanship, everything to take down a potential target with expertise, but he was never preached in religion. He chose Christianity because he thought it might bring him some answers to what path of salvation to choose and to try and atone for his sins. The tolling of the bell slowly died away. A few minutes later, a door opened and Father Vittorio occupied the other booth. He opened a small hatch built into the partition between the two booths. The man began to confide in the father.

"Padre, I...I have sinned."

"_Avante, Figlio Mio,"_ the priest said softly.

"I have done some terrible things in my life. I…I have killed…many people…for money…out of ignorance, out of evil, out of hatred…"

There was a moment of silence in the other booth that to the confessor seemed to last for an eternity. Finally, Father Vittorio spoke in a tone of forced calm.

"_Figlio Mio_-I know you well. You are also a good person. I have seen you taking care of the garden. I know… of the large amount of money you donated to the church. Your soul is on the right path."

"But Father, I do not belong. I'm not of this world. So why should God forgive me?"

"Do not worry, my son." Vittorio's voice was more compassionate this time, "When your time comes, He will have a place for you as well. Just keep God in your heart. Now I must leave. Stay awhile and pray." The priest prayed in Latin while crossing the man from across the booth, stood up and exited the confession, leaving the church while the man stayed in the second booth and prayed for God's guidance.

"Lead me, O heavenly father, in the path of right. I walk alone and stumble in the dark. Show me the light and I'll go there. Let me find peace in my own heart and save me from my enemies."

Father Vittorio got out of the booth and headed for his room through the courtyard outside the church. Sicily, he was thinking. Home to many Italians who are members of the Mafia. Confessions of murder and other atrocious crimes were to be expected. Most of the confessors come to confession because of tradition. Most of them do not feel guilty or ashamed when they confess. Some of them even have the audacity of sounding proud of their works. But this man genuinely sounds like he feels ashamed of what he has done and wants to repent for his sins. Father Vittorio prayed that he find peace and forgiveness of the Lord. He was a few steps away from his quarters when he heard the sound of a car approaching. Wondering who it might be, he crossed the courtyard, opened a small wooden door built into a side of the huge timber gates of the church grounds and stepped outside. A red classic Porsche screeched to a halt in front of him and a man in his mid-50s got out. He was a thickly built Sicilian, dressed in a sky blue shirt, light gray pants and brown shoes. He had black hair and moustache with streaks of gray in them. The other man was in the driver's seat and was built in the same way except he was younger. He had a clean-shaven face, with a small forehead, thin brows, a pair of light gray eyes hidden behind red shades, a long nose with flaring nostrils, a broad jaw and his long, black hair was tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing a white shirt, black pants and boots. He also wore a leather harness that contained gun holsters on both sides. His resemblance with his companion suggested that they might be brothers. Father Vittorio approached the man who got out of the car and greeted them in their native tongue.

_"Bienvenido Ragazzi. Purtroppo, la Chiesa è chiusa. Quindi per favore, tornare domani... "_ He could not finish his sentence as the older Sicilian grabbed him by the collar of his cassock and punched him hard in the face, and said menacingly,_ "Vieni qui, predicatore. Venite con noi per una piccola vacanza."_ The priest cried out,_ "Per favore, per l'amor di Dio! Help me, qualcuno! Aiuto..."_ He received a second punch in the gut that knocked the wind out of him. He fell to the ground, desperately gasping for air. His assailant pulled him up by his upper arms, threw him in the back seat of the car, punched him again in the face and said,_ "Maledizione! Chiudere il tuo volto e rimanere lì."_ Another blow knocked the priest out and the assailant slammed the door shut. His brother then got out of the car carrying a shoebox under his left arm, pulled out a Desert Eagle .50 from his side, and went inside the church. He looked around for any signs of their target and silently placed the box at the foot of the main entrance. He then quietly got in the car with his brother and drove off.

Staring at the heart in the center of the partition separating the two booths, he almost didn't hear the muffled screams coming from the gates to the church. He bolted to the church's front door and peeked through the keyhole to see a bulky man holding a Desert Eagle in one hand and a shoebox in the other standing by the heavy gates of the church. The man laid the box onto the ground before walking backwards out of the church gates. He heard the sound of a car leaving and came out of the church onto the courtyard. He carefully walked toward the box and picked it up. He opened it to find a letter stuck to a kitchen chopping knife. The gesture was quite gruesome, and signatory of the Italian Underworld. He picked the letter from the knife. It read:

_"Bienvenido en Sicilia, Paesan._

We hope you have enjoyed the famous Italian hospitality on our beautiful island. However, there will be a slight charge for your stay. You will prepare a transfer of $500,000 in cash, no later than midnight the day after tomorrow. Meanwhile, we will be entertaining your host, Padre Vittorio. He very much enjoys fishing. We are making sure he is happy that way, until payment has been effected.

_Si sente da noi._

_Giuseppe Giuliani_.'

"$500,000?" he asked himself, "can't pay that. I'm going to the garden shed; time to dig up the past." He took the set of heavy doors to the far right, ran down the spiral stairs and headed for his shed. Entering his shed, he connected his earpiece.

"Agency, this is Agent 47. Patch me through to Diana."

A female voice on the other end replied, "We need to confirm your ID and registration, please."

Pulling out his dirty work gloves from his back pocket and throwing them down on his bed, he responded to the request. "My number is BRO3886. Put Diana on. She'll recognize my voice."

Opening a floor hatch in the corner of his room where his wooden wardrobe cupboard stood, a cautious but familiar voice with a familiar British accent hit 47's ear.

"47! This is Diana speaking. It's good to hear you voice again. We all thought you were dead. You'll be pleased to know that your skills are in great demand these days. You're almost a legend amongst our costumers…"

47 crept into an underground room. He lit a small bulb, roughly shoved a few thick leather-bound books from a small table and found what he was looking for, a laptop. Sitting down to the table he opened the laptop and checked the uplink before entering a few codes to secure an encrypted line.

"Diana, I'm not looking for work." 47 interrupted. "I need some information, on a Giuseppe Giuliani from Palermo in Sicily. What have you got?"

"Ah! Let me see. Giuseppe. Oh yes, I've got a fat file: 'Giuseppe Giuliani, aka Don 'Anguillo' Giuliani: Capo of one the largest, oldest and most influential Mafia organizations in Sicily.'"

47 got up and went over to the coop that contained his black suit, striped white shirt, signature red tie with wide diagonal maroon stripes, and a pair of sleek black gloves made of thin leather. He pulled them out one by one and started to get dressed.

"I need detailed satellite surveillance on his residence," 47 said, "and info on security and access routes, and keep an eye out for a priest. He's a friend of mine and was kidnapped."

"A friend?" Diana sounded skeptical. "Have you gone soft, 47? Besides, we don't believe in handing over information for free. How do you think you're going to pay us back? I've heard that you're extremely wealthy."

"Yes, I know. I've heard that rumor too. It's not true though. But I'm sure you can suggest an arrangement." Putting the finishing touches on the suit he walked over to a secret compartment under the floor boards. He lifted off a loose square piece of board to reveal a black briefcase with a strange emblem on top. He scooped the briefcase out of concealment.

"I'll pull a few strings and see what I can do. Actually…" Diana paused slyly. "I do have a special request for you to perform a contract assignment. It should be a simple operation."

"A mission?"

"Exactly. If you accept, I might be able to give you the requested information very soon. What do you say, 47? Still sharp enough to handle a job these days?"

47 entered the combination and unlocked the briefcase. Inside was a pair of polished Silverballers AMT .45 caliber pistols with a pair of silencers and extra ammunition clips. He slowly pulled the infamous Silverballers from their sleep and brought them back into the grips of a hired killer. He attached the silencers, loaded the clips, checked the safety locks and holstered them inside his suit. Then he came up to his shed with the laptop in hand, which he placed on a small wooden table by his bed. He was about to leave his shed when he caught a reflection of himself in the mirror. It was that of a bald-headed man of about 30 years of age, with a white gaunt face, the expression on which was so hard and set that it might have been chiseled out of stone, the thin black eyebrows over a pair of coal-black eyes that now burned with a silent rage and determination, a long thin nose and a strongly set jaw. He turned away from the mirror, and then set off to rescue Father Vittorio.


	3. Chapter 3

**Anathema**

8 Hours after the incident, on a mundane afternoon somewhere in Palermo, Sicily, far from the city, 47 was on top of one of many gray hills overlooking the entire area near a large mansion. The mansion was surrounded in all directions by a 15-foot high stone wall with sloped tops roofed with thin red tiles. 47 sat against a small fence on top of the hill. The sun was right above him, burning like a huge fiery orb in the north-west sky. The gentle breeze did very little to make the scorching heat bearable. 47, however, was not at all concerned or bothered by the weather. He had his mind focused on one thing only: getting Vittorio out of the huge mansion that he had been watching for the past hour. 47 prayed to God that Vittorio was still alive and crossed himself before kneeling down to open a black briefcase, with Ort-Meyer's emblem on top, that he brought with him, to check its contents. The case was square-shaped and made of double layered carbon fiber. Underneath the logo was a miniature thumb print analyzer. 47 took off his left hand glove and pushed his left thumb over the analyzer. A mild laser passed across the analyzing screen and the briefcase unlocked with a small snap. 47 put the glove back on and opened the briefcase. There was a small portable electronic touch screen attached to the inside of the lid. Attached to it was a small wireless communiqué for mission briefing and further info. He put the communiqué in his right ear and switched the screen on. The screen showed the Agency's 'Merces Letifer' triangular symbol on top of a dark background. Underneath the symbol was a digital keypad. He took out a small flash drive from inside his suit, inserted it in a port at the side of the screen and entered the password to access the contents of the flash drive. The symbol dissolved and was replaced by images of his target, a thickly built, pudgy-faced man in his mid-50s, with short grey-black hair neatly brushed to one side, a pair of gray eyes underneath thin brows, a slightly bulbous nose, a bushy, graying moustache, and a broad, round jaw with a weak chin. 47 switched to a map of the inner and outer grounds, the mansion and the basement with all the access routes and points marked on it. Diana's voice crackled up on the earpiece.

"47, this is Diana from Agency. We're all happy you're back doing business for us. This mutual arrangement we made to save your friend and mentor, Father Vittorio, means you will have to take care of a number of Mafia members residing at the Villa Borghese, where he is kept hostage in the basement. Prime target is Don Giuliani. Security's not exactly lax. There are plenty of guards roaming the mansion surroundings. However, don't expect to free Vittorio just like that. The Don is running a tight ship, and if alarmed, he will probably kill the priest and escape. They are used to people coming to pay respects, ransoms or bribes, but they are alerted by unusual activities. Check out the map we have of the grounds. _Buena Fortuna_, 47." The line was disconnected.

47 stashed the screen inside his suit and checked the case for his equipments. There was his pair of Silverballers with attached silencers and extra ammunition clips, two small glass vials containing transparent liquids, one of which had poison, marked with a small red emblem, and the other had an Agency-manufactured debilitating drug, bearing a small white emblem; and a neatly wrapped leather pouch containing half a dozen syringes, all placed in small compartments cut into the inside of the briefcase. 47 took them out, and hid them inside his suit. He took out his binoculars and scanned the entire facility, checking the grounds outside and inside the wall. The whole area was covered in plush green, neatly mown grass with gravel pathways made between the stretches of green. The paths outside the wall started from a long single strip in the western direction which separated into two paths, one in the eastern and the other in the northern direction. The path in the northern direction wound its way inside mansion premises, where it took a u-turn and stretched on in the south, and vanished in front of a small shack to the right of the mansion. Judging from the brick and mortar structure of the walls of the shack and the roofing identical to that of the mansion itself, 47 reckoned that the shack was probably a garage. There was back entrance to the garage that 47 kept an eye out for. There were spots of denser greenery scattered outside and inside of the wall, with mild foliages consisting of small flowering plants and tall Asparagus trees planted on small, thicker carpets of trimmed grass. The enclosed mansion was built in a spot that had a natural encompassment of huge mountains along with smaller hills. The summits of the distant mountains were covered in mist. The mansion itself was a rectangular, brown-and-white rustic duplex of traditional Sicilian Baroque architecture, with two square windows on either side of the front of the first floor, square balconies on either side of the second floor, three rectangular windows with arched tops and plastic blinds at the front, the northern and southern wings, and sloped but fashionable red tiled roofing. The second floor was smaller in area than the first floor and the rear was a sloped roof designed with the same red tiles. There was a narrow ledge by the balcony on the southern corner. The front of the mansion was flanked by a two-foot high granite landing with three stone steps, underneath round columns on either side of an arched ceiling in front, below a protruded garret.

From where he was standing, he could see activities inside and outside the mansion grounds. His target, the don, was on the northern balcony of the mansion, hitting golf balls. At the far eastern end of the wall, there was a grocery boy moving in food on the right side of the area next to a blue van, taking wooden crates full of groceries into the mansion through one of many small doors built into the wall, while a bulky man in a blue mail carrier's uniform with a bouquet in his right hand entered the outer premises from the left. He stopped near the trees by the western path to take a leak. 47 now turned his attention to the security detail outside the surrounding wall and main gate. The main gate of Villa Borghese was made of steel and was flanked by two guards in black suits and dark shades. Another guard was patrolling the grounds outside the wall, from the main gates to the eastern end of the wall. He was heading back inside the mansion. He reached the eastern end and walked in through the small side door through which the delivery boy had entered. 47 then scanned the security inside the wall.

"There are two at the front door and one at the side door…" Putting the binoculars away 47 saw the guard on the inside walk through a door in the wall to take a leak on a nearby evergreen. Creeping to the guard from on top of the hill, 47 elegantly prepared a syringe with a small dosage of the debilitating drug. Getting right up behind the guard, 47 threw his arm around the guard's head, plunging the needle into his neck. The man struggled, pushing and pulling, trying to break free of 47's attack. After a few moments of struggle, the guard hit the ground, completely lost of consciousness. 47 took the guard's 9mm pistol from inside his jacket and dragged his body in between the trees. He then started to undress his victim. After changing into the guard's uniform, his thoughts went over the map in his mind. Opening the door he found himself near the garage. It was on a slightly higher ground than the wall. He made sure that the coast was clear before picking up the unconscious guard on his shoulders and then silently walked up to the garage wall. The guard weighed at least 200 pounds. 47 managed to open the garage back door, carried the guard inside and quietly laid him down behind a red Porsche Classic. He made sure that the guard was well hidden before he came out of the garage, closing the door behind him. The dosage that he administered into the man's system would keep him unconscious for at least an hour.

All he had to do was walk right by the two guards by the mansion's front doors, and enter into the backyard. One of the guards carried a 12-gauge double-barrel shotgun, so 47 kept his movements cool and his senses sharp and headed towards the small flight of stairs outside the south wing of the mansion that possibly led to the cellar. Nearing the guard he could see him staring through his shades. He would not think anything of it if he just kept walking right on past him. Feeling some tension, his heartbeat began to race. Just a few feet from the stairs, another guard was standing on a small landing before a small door leading into the kitchen with his back turned, yawning and stretching. Hearing 47's footsteps on the rustling grass, the guard turned around and stared at him. 47 had no choice but to walk on until he reached the eastern end of the mansion, where there was an inner separating wall with another side door. The guard eyed 47 all the way to the door. Once inside, 47 saw a ladder built into the wall on his left and both the don's brother and son were standing by a backyard pool. 47 quickly hid behind a shrub and observed the two men. The don's brother was the one he saw leaving the message at the monastery. He was dressed in the same attire. The don's son could not have been more than 20 years old. He had a slightly freckled face with brown eyes, thin brows like his father, a thinner nose and a strong jaw. His long straw-colored hair kept falling over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed them to one side. He was dressed in an orange Polo shirt, white pants and brown shoes. 47 noticed a Desert Eagle, similar to the ones holstered in his uncle's harness, tucked in the back of his pants. The two were talking casually. But then the topic changed abruptly.

"_Do you think he will pay the ransom?"_ The son spoke to his uncle.

"_I don't know. It all depends on if he cares and whether or not he wants his friend to die."_ The uncle said indifferently.

Angry but cautious, 47 came to the ladder and climbed it. Then he waited for the son and uncle to make any kind of move that would draw them away from the pool. The balcony of the don's study was within visual of the two men. 47 would attract too much attention if he just walked straight up to it, and would blow his cover. After about a minute, he heard the brother say that he smelled something delicious and went inside the mansion; the son followed. Staying low, 47 traversed the roof until he came to the edge. A wooden plank was placed over the narrow gap between the roof and the balcony. 47 stepped onto the balcony and reached the balcony. He could either, bust in and shoot the don or he could make it a bit more poetic. Looking through the keyhole, 47 noticed the don reading some papers. He was going to get his revenge and he was going to do it right. Opening the door, 47 reached his hand into his suit.

Don Giuliani was sitting on a comfortable, leather-backed revolving chair behind a large and nicely carved wooden desk placed in the middle of his study. The back of his chair faced the window which overlooked a view of the swimming pool outside. He was drinking tea and admiring the bouquet of pink flowers on his desk that was just delivered to him. There was a bookshelf to his right, with two doors on either side of it. The door to the right side of the shelf led out onto the balcony outside his study and the one to the left side led into one of the landings of the second floor. There were two more doors to his left, the nearest one also leading out onto the balcony, and the other one into the hallway. He took out a notepad from one of the drawers underneath his desk and began writing a 'Thank You' note. Suddenly, the balcony door to the right opened and one of his guards walked in, except this guard was a tall, bald man. The don took a few seconds to recall whether any of his guards were bald. The guard produced a silencer-attached pistol from behind his back and the don realized that he had no bald guards. The sudden appearance of this man in his study had already startled the don very much. His state of shock proved to be fatal as he was slightly slow in reacting, and he fumbled with the desk's top drawer, trying desperately to take out his revolver while cursing the unexpected visitor in his native tongue. The delay was enough for the assassin to strike; two muffled spits issued from the gun, and two high velocity projectiles struck the don, one in his chest and the other in his throat. The don's grip from the drawer loosened, he keeled over and fell sideways out of his chair. The bullet to his throat prevented him to call out for help as he choked on his own blood gushing out of his mouth and the wound. The assassin stood over him as he pulled out a second silenced pistol and pointed each at the two doors leading out to the hallway and the second floor landing.

The door to the hallway opened first as a guard walked in. He stopped in his tracks as he witnessed the scene before him. He reached inside his suit but the assassin was faster. He pulled the trigger again, and another bullet caught the guard right between his eyes. The guard's head was pulled back with a violent jerk. He was about to hit the ground hard before the assassin caught him by the collar of his jacket and gently laid him down. He closed the door and then stood over the dying don once again. He then knelt down and took off his shades. Their eyes met, and the last image of Don Giuliani was that of a man with his eyes, devoid of remorse or hesitation, boring into his. The man reached inside his suit and pulled out a kitchen knife. The don recognized the knife and his eyes widened in horror as the assassin brought it over his chest. The knife steadied right over where his heart was and then began descending slowly. The assassin had him pinned down with his knee in his gut. The tip of the knife touched his flesh and slowly, and painfully, began to pierce through. The don watched helplessly as the blade sunk lower and lower into his chest, the pain intensifying every second, until suddenly, he felt the knife crush his ribs and enter his heart. He gave a muffled yelp as more blood gurgled out of his open mouth. Then, in a final act of vengeance, the assassin twisted the knife, spilling crimson all over the don's shirt and more red flowed out onto the floor. The don let out a last excruciating breath and went still with his eyes wide open in shock and fear, and pool of crimson slowly began spreading out on the floor.

Making sure his target was dead, 47 removed the key from his pocket and got up. He had gotten his revenge. Now all he had to do was get Vittorio and get out of there. In order to do that he would have to have a way to get him out. He could not just walk him out; he would have to use the car. The intelligence stated that the car was the brother's. 47 only had one target but why not ruin the entire family, kill the son and the brother.

Back out on the balcony, he could see the recently deceased don's brother and son back outside by the pool. 47 made his way to the ladder all the while watching his two new targets. End the entire family line, that's what they deserve, he thought. Descending the ladder hidden behind the trees, he almost did not notice the two walk by toward the back wall to take a leak. It was the perfect time for vengeance. Pulling out the twin Silverballers, he followed them like a ghost. Not alerting them to his presence, he stood only three feet from both of them. The barrels lined up at each of their intending targets' heads.

"_Ah! I feel so much bet…_" The brother's head exploded onto the wall. The son, in complete shock, turned around only to fall the second he saw 47's face.

Picking up the car key from the brother's shirt pocket, 47 entered the house from the back door and traveled through the dining room to the kitchen. A narrow flight of stairs at the end of the kitchen led down into the basement. Not seeing anyone except a bulky old woman in cook's outfit washing dishes by the sink of a well furnished culinary unit while humming, and the grocery boy bringing in the crates, 47 crept into the dimly lit basement. The basement had stone walls, a low arched ceiling with small light bulbs hanging from it, and a cold stone floor. 47 reached the steel door of the room where Father Vittorio was kept hostage. Setting the key inside the lock, he turned the knob. The room was empty. There was a single wooden chair, but Father Vittorio wasn't there… Why wasn't he there? 47 immediately contacted the Agency.

"Diana, he's not in the basement. They must have moved him."

Diana answered in a few seconds, "47, this is Diana from the Agency. You're probably right. Recent satellite footage suggests a priest being dragged along the villa grounds by four bearded, Russian-looking types in uniform." She waited for few seconds and then spoke again, "your target has been eliminated, 47. I suggest you find a way out of there."

47's heart began to hammer inside his chest. He was too late to save his friend. Perhaps the Agency could track the priest. Hopefully they could… Turning from the empty room he walked out of the basement and into the sunshine. There were two guards frantically talking near the side door.

"_The Don is dead! So are his brother and son!"_

"_How the hell did this happen?"_ The guard saw 47 ascend from the basement door. 47 noticed the unwanted attention and turned toward the garage. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see both men walking toward him. Making haste, 47 started to run. The next thing he knew, he was hearing bullets and seeing them hit the garage in front of him. 47 ducked into the garage and frantically unlocked the car door. A guard from in front of the garage was crossing the gap to see what was going on when he noticed 47 get into the car. Like a bat out of hell, 47 floored it, rolling the guard over the hood and onto the ground. A few shotgun blasts sounded as he raced away and smashed through the gate. Turning left, 47 sped down the dirt and left the villa behind.

As the car gradually became a tiny red speck in the distance, leaving behind a cloud of dust, a highly magnified binocular was lowered, revealing a pair of hazel eyes. The owner of those eyes was dressed in a blue mail carrier's uniform. He was crouching by a fairly tall Asparagus on top of a hill, a good distance away from the surrounding walls of the mansion. He had been waiting, and watching the events as they unfolded in the mansion, from a nearly undetectable position. Beside him was a small shoulder bag which was crammed with an artificial face, a fake moustache and a pair of fake black eyebrows, a black wig and big roll of padding that he unhooked from his belly after he climbed the hill. His glossy brown hair was a little ruffled. He put the binoculars away and took out a cell phone from inside his uniform jacket. He called on a secured line. After three tones a gruff voice answered.

"So, my mysterious friend, what is the situation? Did he take the mission?"

"He just got away in Fulvio's Porsche. He ended the entire bloodline of Giuliani. It looks like he's back in business. Your plan has been successful…so far."

"Ah!" the man at the other end exclaimed delightedly. "Have a little faith. Soon he will be working for me, tying up my loose ends." There was a thick Russian accent in the man's voice.

"Let's hope so." The American replied. "So, what's your next move?"

"Come join me in my country. I will show you what I have in store for Mr. 47. _До скорой встречи, Товарищ._" He hung up. The American picked up his bag and checked the area once again before descending the hill, and walked away in the western direction.

That evening, at the monastery, 47 was pacing to and fro in his shed. A Bible lay open on his bed. He was about to close it when his laptop bleeped. The Agency was calling. 47 put the Bible on the table and received the call.

"47, Diana here. We are sorry that you had so little luck at the mansion. It's really hard to tell where Vittorio was taken. We lost him in the airport." There was a brief silence. Then Diana continued, "The Agency does, however, feel that we've fulfilled our end of the deal and expects you to comply with the terms by completing a minor assignment in St. Petersburg, Russia. Your objective is to take out an ex-KGB officer, participating in a secret meeting, solely arranged so that you can take a clean shot at the officer. The meeting will take place at 1300 hours local time tomorrow in the Pushkin building at Varosznitz Square. The room is on the second floor on the west wing, overlooking the Square. The windows are marked on the attached image. The building is a former FSB headquarters and can only be accessed from the Square. There is one main entrance and a back entrance, both heavily guarded by FSB Paramilitary Personnel. The target must be eliminated during the meeting, which is scheduled to last five minutes. Absolutely no one except the target must be harmed. This is very important, 47. Upon arrival by Metro, you will find your equipment paraphernalia in locker 137 at the station. Your escape route is returning with the train. Avoid all contacts with soldiers and guards. They are instructed to remove civilians from the area."

The line was disconnected. Realizing that he had to worry about Vittorio later, 47 checked the image of the Pushkin building. The windows were circled in red. He closed the Bible, got up and opened his wardrobe drawers. He took out a Russian passport.


End file.
